Collector of the Broken
by The Phantom's Avenger
Summary: After the events of D.C., Bucky finds himself attempting to start over and find worth in his chaotic life. He finds himself in Chicago drawn to creatures more broken than himself: the strays on the street and a woman overwhelmed with the daunting task of rescuing dogs and cats.
1. Fugitive

Thanks for reading! Please review! If you see any errors let me know and I'll correct them. Sometimes the keys stick and sometimes I'm a dingus :)

Chapter 1

"You know that feeling when you walk into a room and you're about to grab something, but then you're standing there and you have no idea why you walked in? It completely slips your mind, even though two seconds earlier it was the only thing you were thinking of?"

The orange cat rubbed up against Bucky's jeans, its white whiskers twitching as it chattered its feline answer.

"Do you ever get that feeling? Maybe in an alley?" he asked the cat. "Probably not."

Two white paws settled on his lap as the cat rubbed its face against his. For two weeks Bucky had been feeding the stray he had seen rummaging through trash cans and Dumpsters in alleyways. Sometimes the battered striped cat was chased away by people, sometimes it was joined by other cats or greeted by kind strangers. No matter the situation, the orange cat strutted down the street with its tail held high.

"You're way too cool to forget why you walked into an alley," Bucky mumbled. "You're way too cool for me, aren't you? If it wasn't for these treats you wouldn't even be here."

The cat protested as Bucky moved the creature aside and stood, brushing orange and white cat hair from his jeans. Reaching into his pocket, he scattered a few morsels of cat treats he had absently picked up from the corner store along with an energy drink that had only seemed to make him jittery.

"What are your plans for the day?" he asked the cat.

So this was his life now. From trained and calculated assassin to break time on the southside with a stray cat. Jesus, now if that wasn't the strangest thing.

The cat chomped on its treats before it took off across the street and down an alley.

"Figures," Bucky said to himself. He flexed his metal arm concealed beneath a long sleeved shirt, a jacket, and a glove. A little excessive for July in Chicago, but he was taking no chances after D.C. Already he looked over his shoulder every few seconds, a habit that he would never shake. Too many people were looking for him still. This gig was only going to last until the end of summer, if that, and then he would be on the move. South this time, he told himself. New Orleans was looking good.

"Hey!" a man shouted from the dock of a dilapidated building. "You working past lunch today or what, Jimmy?"

"Coming," he answered, stuffing both hands in his pockets.

Two weeks working at a warehouse with too many men stuffed inside a building with too few windows felt like torture-or at least that was how some of the other workers described it. This was nothing, he wanted to tell them. Try being captured by Hydra and having your brain scrambled every few months.

Was it months? There was no marker in time, no calendar of when he had last been himself. When he spent too much time in his own jumbled head, he wasn't sure who that person had been or if there was anything left.

He ducked beneath a low overhang and into the building that was bustling with pallets wrapped in plastic and stacked nearly to the ceiling. Another guy who had started recently complained about lunch time being cut short.

Time didn't mean much, not after he had lost decades of his life. Every aspect of life was reduced to that feeling of walking into a room and having no idea what he'd wanted to retrieve. The repetition of the warehouse at least helped to an extent. The consistency of loading heavy bins one after the other onto the pallets as they were wrapped and then loaded onto trucks made the day pass by swiftly.

Once he finished his ten hour day, there was not much to look forward to other than a bare mattress on the floor of an apartment with a creaky, unreliable A/C unit in the window, a fridge he could never seem to keep full, and a cheap lamp with a bulb that made him feel as though he were constantly under interrogation. The water in the shower ran cold, which wasn't a bad thing after spending the whole day drenched in his own sweat.

Nothing in the apartment made it feel like home, and he dreaded turning the key in the lock and standing in the small space that was both a bedroom and living room combined. The lamp and mattress would both be abandoned once he drifted into another city and another life.

As long as he had a small amount of cash at his disposal, he could be anyone. RIght now he was Jimmy Hunt, a name he'd stolen off the side of a truck when the City of Chicago came into view. For two hundred bucks some fast-talking Filipino kid with a Cubs hat on backward and a button-down blue striped shirt made him a government-issued ID with that name, James B. Hunt.

The kid behind the counter offered a greasy smile as he produced the fake documents of a driver's license and birth certificate. "James Bernard," he said. "Bernard was my old man's name."

"Where is he now?" Bucky asked before he slid the ID into the pocket that had previously occupied two hundred dollars.

"Dead," the kid answered. Bucky couldn't tell if it was a good thing or a bad thing.

That one meaningless, brief conversation had been the highlight of Bucky's day when he arrived in Chicago. The time spent alone made it feel like the world collapsed around him, folded up and threatened to smash him in the process.

They had a name for that feeling now, the anger and numbness and paranoia. It was an odd sensation, like being overly aware of every muscle twitch while at the same time his mind seemed like mush.

There were medications and groups to attend so that others suffering from the same thing could sit around and talk about their problems. Post traumatic stress disorder, PTSD. There was nothing post about it. The feeling was painfully current and always lingered in the back of his mind, making him forget what he'd walked into a room to retrieve and often why he was still alive.

For a couple of weeks Bucky had tried jotting down notes to see if there was a pattern to the sensation of feeling like his heart was about to explode in his chest. The sudden bouts of uncontrollable anger that took the color out of his vision. Once he'd thrown a gallon of milk at the wall and didn't realize it until he stood in a puddle. Somehow, the Chinese take-out had met the same fate. He had no recollection of throwing either item-and he didn't remember even ordering food.

This was borrowed time, he knew. Unnatural time, even. But it was still his. Somehow he couldn't help but feel like the humdrum, repetitive work of loading pallets onto trucks was the worst way to spend his life. Of course, as a fugitive there could have been worse situations.

"Jimmy!" the boss yelled from his upstairs office. He was a big guy named Javier with a thick moustache and a beard that sort of blended in with his chest hair. The guy looked like he could use a full-body shave. Or waxing. Bucky had read about something called manscaping, but he wasn't sure that was still a thing and Javier didn't look like the type of guy who relied on fashion or hygiene trends.

Bucky turned even though he was still getting used to the new name.

"We're gonna start calling you Jimmy Stray if another damn cat follows you in here."

Bucky turned to find the orange cat standing behind him, its tail the shape of a question mark as it surveyed its surroundings like a king taking over a newly acquired kingdom.

"Outta here," Bucky grumbled. He stepped toward the cat and motioned with this hands, but the feline was not at all impressed.

The cat looked at him as though he had no idea why he had entered the warehouse, but wanted to play it cool. After a moment of casually sniffing the air, the little beast strutted out the back and darted off into the alley where it disappeared around the corner.

"Jimmy!" the boss shouted. His massive hands wrapped around the steel railing. Dark eyes squinted down at the warehouse floor and glared straight through Bucky. "In my office."

"God damn it," Bucky said under his breath as he lowered his eyes and slinked toward the concrete stairs heading to the office. This job had not lasted nearly as long as he had hoped.


	2. Sixteen Minutes

Chapter 2

Really, it would have been easier to walk off the job and not look back, but that hadn't crossed Bucky's mind until he stood at the top of the stairs. Javier had returned to his office and shut the door, which kept the ice cold air conditioning in the little tower overlooking the peasants working in his little kingdom.

"Mr. Hunt," Javier said without looking up once Bucky entered the office. He sat hunched over in his office chair with his eyes squinting at the computer monitor. His thick fingers quickly tapped the keys, then paused, hit backspace, and repeated the sequence again. "Have a seat."

Bucky closed the door behind him with a heavier thud than he intended. The temperature drop between the warehouse floor to the office made him shiver.

He hated small spaces like this with white walls and concrete floors. Javier had done his initial interview in this icebox, and before the interview started, Bucky sat in silence with nothing to occupy his time. Javier had no pictures on his desk and nothing but a calendar-which was still stuck on February-on his office wall. The space was quite literally blank, and that made Bucky nervous.

"Look, if it isn't working out-"

"Take a seat," Javier said again.

The chair scraped the cement floor, and Bucky cringed at the sound. Javier rolled his tongue along the inside of his cheek and briefly looked up.

"Do you know why I called you in here?"

Bucky shifted in his seat and realized one chair leg was shorter than the rest, which made his seat rock back. His anxiety kicked up another notch, and he felt as though his insides knotted and his chest became weighed down with an invisible boulder resting on his lungs.

"Termination, sir," he answered like the perfect soldier.

Javier shot him a look of pure annoyance before he pulled a single sheet of paper off his office printer and allowed it to sail to the edge of the desk in front of Bucky.

"Your time sheet."

Bucky glanced at the paper.

"How long are lunches, Mr. Hunt?"

"An hour," he answered with no hesitation.

"How long is your average lunch break according to your time sheet?"

Bucky swallowed and looked over the paper in front of him. He did the math in his head for the last four days in the warehouse. "Sixteen minutes."

"Sixteen minutes," Javier echoed.

"Is that… bad?" He cringed as he spoke.

Javier sat back, turned his office chair away, and hit the space bar furiously several times until the computer screen lit up. For several minutes he scrolled through content Bucky couldn't see from his vantage point.

Again Bucky felt his anxiety rise like the sea level lapping up to his chin and threatening to rise well over his head. Despite the air conditioning running full blast, perspiration beaded on his forehead.

The printer spit out another sheet of paper, which Javier floated in front of his employee. The office chair groaned as he sat back and folded his hands.

"What's the average for this one?"

The numbers no longer made sense. His heart raced so fast he could barely breathe, his eyes blurring with the threat of a panic attack threatening to take hold.

"I don't have anything in my locker," he mumbled. There was no reason to draw this out any further as long as Barnes was concerned. As much as he wanted to bolt out of the room, his legs refused to work. Whatever punishment was in store, he was going to receive every second of it.

Instinctively he clenched his jaw, but there was no mouth guard to bite into. The tips of his fingers turned numb, his vision starting to blur at the edges.

"I'm not firing you, Mr. Hunt."

The boss's words snapped Bucky back from the verge of a full blown anxiety attack. He sat numbly for a moment, attempting to harness his breathing and focus on the paper in front of him.

 _ **32557038**_

No matter how many times his brain was scrambled, those numbers were always present. It seemed odd that he could forget his own birthday, had no idea what his social security number or address as a kid was, but those numbers… those were stamped in every wrinkle of his brain.

Bucky blinked, attempting to decipher the jumble in front of him, afraid his boss had somehow dug up the truth. It wasn't uncommon for Bucky to wake up in a cold sweat and roll to his feet in the middle of the night, every muscle in his body tense and ready for a fight. Sometimes it was a siren in the distance that roused him from sleep, sometimes the trigger of a nightmare he could never quite remember when he woke.

If the number sequence was truly on the page, he didn't know. He pinched his eyes shut for a moment and squeezed his hands into fists.

"Relax, man," Javier said with a chuckle. "You have to be the most disciplined, efficient employee I've seen in the last eight years. Honestly I don't really know what the hell you're doing here."

Bucky looked up. "I needed a job."

Javier shrugged. "The question was rhetorical, but you know what? You're making the rest of my crew look bad."

"I'm sorry, sir."

Javier grunted. "I'm not looking for an apology. They need to march their sorry asses up here and apologize to me, but you know what? I don't want those sweaty bastards in my office."

"So I still have a job?"

Javier sat back. "As long as you do me a favor."

Bucky's eyebrows shot up. "Yes, sir."

"Two favors. Enough of the polite crap. You call me Jav like everyone else, you got it? I'm sure the others call me a few other choice words, but I'm cool with Jav."

Bucky nodded.

"And take a real damn break, man. At least thirty minutes, Hunt, that's all I ask. It'll save me some grief with the rest of the guys and trust me, it'll save your ass in the long run too. All of these bastards have worked together for so long their brains have jelled into one massive clump of worthless gray matter."

"I'll try." He started to stand, but Javier snapped his fingers.

"You need something to do for thirty minutes? Keep you from walking into the building sixteen minutes after you walked out?"

Barnes shrugged. Sitting idle had never been his thing. Ever sine he was a kid he'd needed a job-and most of the time his job had been keeping his scrawny best friend out of trouble. The thought made him shudder. Another memory peeking out at him from a veil of muddled darkness.

"I guess," he mumbled.

"Take a walk down the street toward the Walgreens. There's an animal place on the corner. Big sign with a cartoon dog over the door." Javier held out his hands to indicate how large the sign was. "Ask for Corinna."

"Yes, si-"

"I swear to God."

"Jav," Bucky replied awkwardly.

Work ended at five, but most of the guys were done stacking and loading pallets at three and stood around complaining about the heat, how the Cubs or Sox were doing, the never end construction traffic, and politics. Typical, time-wasting topics took precedence over what they were being paid to do. Javier closed the blinds in his office after lunchtime and never left his ice cold space, which meant no one really cared what happened after lunch.

While the rest of the crew milled around, Bucky swept in the back of the warehouse, prepared the rolls of plastic wrap for the following morning, and busied himself in the distance.

Small talk wasn't his thing. He still couldn't keep up with current events and had no recollection of most major historical news over the last seventy years. Any time people brought up pop culture references, he forced a nod and a laugh and hoped they'd simply overlook him and talk to someone else.

Isolation was really no surprise. He'd been virtually alone since he fell from the train and into the endless, snowy abyss.

That memory always stopped him dead in his tracks, mostly because it was the last thing he truly remembered and each horrifying detail thrummed through him. Sometimes the sequence played out in dreams and he woke up as he slammed onto the floor, body splayed. That was the good thing about sleeping on just a mattress in the corner-there was really nowhere to fall. The thing was, his body didn't know that and no matter how many times he tried to wake up, his mind refused to let go.

The sequence of numbers played in his mind again, completely unbidden. Why the hell couldn't he have winning lotto numbers stream through his thoughts?

"Look at the kiss ass sweeping the floor."

The voice of a man Bucky didn't recognize startled him from his repetitive task. He glanced up, saw the lanky man with an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips smirk at him, then continued sweeping. The guy was scrawny as they came. His name was Luke or Larry or something near that, Bucky thought. He vaguely recalled overhearing the man talk about all of his money going to child support and some broad who wanted more cash every month out of his pocket.

"Hey, kiss ass, you get a promotion today or something?"

Barnes took a breath. He had no desire to engage in conversation, but he'd known greasy-haired slime balls like this guy in the past. These were the types who went everywhere looking for a fight.

"No," Bucky said over his shoulder.

"What's with the glove? You got some sort of Michael Jackson fetish going on?"

"No," he answered again, assuming the instigator didn't mean Mike Jackson, a kid who knew in second grade from the Bronx.

"Is that the only thing you know how to say, kiss ass? The answer to everything is no?"

Bucky glanced at the clock. 4:52 was close enough to quitting time and he doubted Javier would complain about him leaving a few minutes early. He took the push broom out to the back door and shook it out. Not surprisingly, the lanky man followed him and leaned in the doorway, blocking his path back inside the building.

"Excuse me," Bucky said, averting his eyes. If he looked at the guy, he was definitely going to punch him square in the nose-with his metal hand.

"Where you from?"

Bucky felt his nostrils flare. "New York."

"What brings you here?"

"A job."

"They ain't got crappy warehouse jobs in New York?"

Bucky didn't reply. The longer the conversation went on, the harder it was going to be to hold his tongue. This arrogant, scrawny idiot was getting dangerously close to losing a tooth or two.

The man looked him over as he continued to linger in the doorway. "You ain't shit around here, you got that, new guy? I don't care what Jav tells you. You ain't shit."

Bucky stayed silent. If he made one wrong move, he would be on the run again and he didn't have the strength to disappear into another town so soon nor the cash on hand to start over. No matter what, he needed to stay put for a while longer.

"Whatever, kiss ass." The man turned and slammed the heavy steel door in his face. He reached for the handle but remembered none of the back doors to the building opened from the outside, meaning he had to walk all the way around the building not only to return the broom to the closet but to punch out.

With a roll of his eyes, he walked down the five concrete steps and rounded the building toward the front. The orange cat lounged on top of a closed Dumpster, its ears pricked forward once he spotted Bucky.

"Just another great day at work," he said to the cat.

The cat meowed, which Bucky took as the cat agreeing with him. With a heavy sigh, he tossed the broom into the nearest corner, punched out for the day, and walked out of the building.

Hands in his pocket, he strolled down the muggy street toward the Walgreens and a faint but persistent alarm blaring from the building with the giant sign in the shape of a dog.

The wail of a smoke detector should have sent him flying in the other direction, but deep inside he'd always been a soldier, and no matter the bounty on his head or the threat of imprisonment, he couldn't stop himself from entering Chicago Safe Haven Animal Shelter. Some things would never change, and running into danger was one of them.


	3. The Microwave Incident

Chapter 3

"Oh my God," Corinne Rodriguez muttered as the smoke detector screamed from overhead in the shelter kitchen.

Seriously, who in the hell burns canned cat food, she wanted to scream? Of course, that scream would have been directed at herself. The microwave had to be possessed. That was the only way to explain the styrofoam plate currently on fire with a mound of burnt cat pate on top. Every time she put something in for thirty seconds, the microwave ran for three full minutes. Really, it needed to be replaced, but there weren't funds available and so far no one had bought a new one from their wish list.

"Cori, you need help in there?" one of the volunteers shouted from the kitten room. It was Tim, the late afternoon guy who worked in a library part time and played piano in Boy's town on Sunday mornings for brunch. He had a way with the cats. Big dogs terrified him, but cats loved the guy.

"No!" she shouted back. If anyone saw the current situation, she would never live this down. Like, not ever. Within seconds Tim would have live streamed the whole disaster to his forty thousand Instagram followers.

She hefted a chair and dragged it toward the smoke detector located above the wooden cabinets. Deft as a cat, she jumped up on the chair, stood on the counter, and reached as far as she could.

That damn smoke detector was about five inches out of reach.

"Son of a-" She jumped up as if somehow her short legs would become pogo sticks. "Come on!"

Another jump and she almost fell off the counter. Two metal pet food dishes clattered to the ground. Thankfully they were empty or there would have been a second disaster unfolding in the kitchen.

"Cori?" Tim shouted.

"It's nothing! I'm trying to get the smoke detector to stop beeping."

"Try not burning stuff. I've heard that works."

"Best volunteer ever, so helpful," she said through her teeth.

"Seriously, though, what is that smell, girl?"

Corinna decided not to answer. She jumped down from the counter and tossed the burning cat food into a garbage bag, which she knotted, hefted over her shoulder, and whipped outside into the alley Dumpster in hopes that would stop the beeping before her ears began to bleed.

She kicked the door stop into place to keep the back door open and air out the kitchen before the lingering smell of burning cat food killed them all. Thank goodness it was summer and not the middle of a Chicago winter, she mused.

When she turned around, a guy in a dark red jacket, baseball cap, dirty jeans and old work boots walked into the shelter kitchen.

"Holy crap!" she shouted.

He barely looked at her as he searched the room. Blue eyes shot up to the smoke detector over the cabinets, and without a word to her, the stranger smoothly stepped onto the chair, effortlessly reached up, and removed the screaming alarm from the ceiling.

"There," he said as he yanked the battery out of the back. He offered a wide, satisfied grin once he met her eye.

Corinna stared back at him, her brow furrowed. Words eluded her as she looked over the tall, broad-shouldered stranger with his dark hair down to his shoulders. He towered over her, which was no surprise since literally everyone in the city stood taller than her. Five feet of sass, Tim called her, although he was one to talk. Tim was her six-foot sass twin.

But this guy? There was something intriguing about his smile, a sort of sadness lingering beneath his expression. Maybe he was just tired, she thought to herself. Lots of people who walked through the shelter doors smiled through a bit of sadness as they looked for a new pet after losing a faithful dog or cat, searched for a missing best friend, or needed to say goodbye to a pet at the end of its life.

"Who let you in?" she asked.

The man placed the smoke detector on the counter next to empty cans of cat food and wrinkled his nose, most likely at the horrendous smell of burning wet cat food.

"The front door was unlocked. I heard the alarm and thought maybe something was on fire."

Corinna cringed. That was the second time in a month she'd forgotten to lock the door at closing time. Tim was going to flip the hell out if he heard the stranger say that.

As if on cue, Tim walked into the kitchen as if he were strutting down a runway. "Did you really leave the door unlocked again?" he said with a roll of his eyes.

The stranger turned and looked at Tim briefly, and before Corinna could say a word, Tim's expression turned from annoyed to intrigued by their unexpected guest.

"Lord have mercy, you can leave the door open any time you want," he said with a ridiculous grin.

"I'm sorry, we're actually closed," Corinna said to the stranger.

"I just heard the alarm. I didn't know," the man said. His work shirt underneath his jacket said _Jimmy._

He didn't really look like a Jimmy-not that she had a solid opinion of what a Jimmy should look like. Were guys named Jimmy this hot?

Not that he was hot…

Okay, he was _very hot_. Both the sweaty kind of hot and the smokin' good-looking kind of hot.

And now she was definitely checking him out and he definitely didn't notice.

"We've got it under control," Corinna said.

"That's a lie. We never have it under control," Tim replied. He shot her a look like she was crazy for trying to dismiss this wayward, good looking man.

"What's that smell?" Jimmy asked.

"Our director," Tim answered. He pointed his thumb at Corinna. "Corinna Rodriguez. She typically smells like this."

"You're Corinna?" Jimmy asked as though he had heard of her.

 _Yep, that's me. Burnt cat food lady. Was it possible to fire a volunteer?_

"Tim, can you check the laundry? I'm pretty sure the buzzer went off."

"Already did. And the buzzer is broken so you're clearly hearing things, my dear." He smuggly leaned against the wall and crossed his arms while still checking out the new guy.

"My boss told me to come talk to you," Jimmy said, ignoring their exchange.

"Who's your boss?"

"Javier."

Corinna's eyebrows shot up. Her brother literally never sent her anyone decent to volunteer at the shelter. He was notorious for sending her teenagers from the neighborhood who had interest in helping out for a few days before they realized volunteering wasn't so much petting kittens as it was cleaning litter boxes and spraying down cages. Of course Jav had to send down some gloriously good looking dude on a day when she was covered in dog hair, bleach, and cat food.

Not like that wasn't every day, but she could have at least taken her hair out of a ponytail and put on some lipgloss if she knew this fine specimen was walking through the doors.

"We do new volunteer orientation on Wednesdays," she explained, trying to keep it cool.

"It's Wednesday, hun," Tim pointed out. He took his cell phone out of his back pocket and aimed it at the new guy, who was most likely going to be on Instagram within seconds.

"Morning," she clarified. "We do new volunteer orientation on Wednesdays at nine."

"No one showed up. Why don't you just do it now?"

Tim, bless his heart, was doing everything in his power to keep the eye candy around a little longer.

"Because I don't have anything prepared," she answered pointedly.

"I can come back," Jimmy offered. He looked from Tim to Corinna and shifted his weight. His right hand was held in a tight fist, his left hand flexed and released several times beneath a dark gray work glove, which caught her attention much longer than necessary. "I need something to do during my lunch break," he added.

Corinna snapped her gaze up to meet his. Blue eyes stared back at her briefly before he looked down at his left hand and frowned. Without looking at her, he slid his hand into his jacket pocket and took a step back.

"What most interests you in volunteering?" Corinna asked, attempting to salvage the impromptu meeting. Despite his good looks, Corinna was fully aware they were in desperate need of good volunteers to keep the shelter up and running. Most of the college kids had already left to return to campuses until winter break rolled around. Most of the senior citizen volunteers weren't up to the major tasks of repairing dog kennels, moving cage banks of cat cages, and other daily operations.

He shrugged. "What most interests me? Staying busy, I guess."

"Dogs or cats?"

"Either."

"Past experience?"

"Army."

That wasn't the answer she expected, but she nodded. Honestly, none of his answers fit the typical person to stroll in looking to work with animals. Some teens lumbered through the door in search of college credits or because they needed to volunteer for school. Senior citizens wanted out of the house, and everyone in between had their own myriad reasons for wanting to help animals.

"Did you mean with animals?" Jimmy asked. "I had a dog once. A long time ago."

"Are you handy at all?"

A smile touched the corners of his lips. "Very," he said. He sounds proud, but not arrogant.

"Can you come back tomorrow at noon? I'll be more prepared to walk you through."

Jimmy nodded. "I'll do whatever you need."

"Ooh, we like the sound of that," Tim said before he turned and walked out of the room. He looked over his shoulder and winked at Corinna, who did her best to ignore him. The phone in the lobby rang, and a few seconds later she heard Tim answer it.

"I'll put the smoke detector back up if you want," Jimmy offered. His smile returned, but his eyes were still filled with sadness.

"I would appreciate that," Corinna replied. "I can't reach it anyways."

"Does this count as volunteering?"

Corinna chuckled to herself. "Yeah, we will consider saving us all from being beeped to death as volunteer work."

Bucky felt Corinna examine his every move as he stepped onto the chair and stood on the counter again. _Do not fall off the counter, do not fall off the counter. Do not look like a complete idiot._

He put the 9 volt battery back into the smoke detector and snapped it back into place. When he turned, he found Corinna standing with her arms crossed, her gaze immediately focusing on the open door rather than him. He figured she was probably studying his gloved hand again, which came as no surprise. Admittedly it had taken him quite a while to get used to his new arm and he couldn't blame people for staring.

"Thanks," she said cheerfully. "I appreciate you doing that."

"No problem." He moved from the counter to the chair and jumped down onto the floor, smooth as a cat.

They stood in awkward silence for a moment.

"So, noon?" she asked.

"Yeah, I'll walk down on my lunch."

"How's Jav treating you?" she asked.

Bucky shrugged. "He's okay. You know him?"

"A little." She flashed a wide smile, which showed off the dimples in her cheeks. "We may or may not have grown up in the same house for eighteen years."

Bucky's expression sobered. "He's your brother?"

"Unfortunately." She smiled again, and Bucky looked her over, searching for any resemblance he'd missed between Javier and Corinna. She turned away to close the door leading into the alley and he stole a glance.

She was petite, probably barely over five feet tall with thick, dark hair and caramel highlights. Despite her short stature, there was something still intimidating about her, like she could kick some ass if needed.

"No one ever guesses we're related. I tell him all the time our parents found a grizzly bear in the woods and mistook it for a baby."

"He's a nice guy," Bucky said absently.

Corinna shrugged and motioned for him to follow her. "He can be a real pain in the ass, but he's a good guy. Takes care of his kids and wife."

Well, there was something he didn't know at all. Judging by his blank office walls and empty desk, Bucky didn't think the guy had a family. Of course, it wasn't any of his business, either.

"I just started," he replied.

"I doubt most of the guys who have been there for ten years know he has kids. Jav doesn't talk about anything to anyone."

Bucky could relate. The less people knew about him, the better.

"What about you? Kids? Wife?"

He shook his head as they walked down the hall toward the front of the building. "Neither."

Again she smiled. If he hadn't been so out of practice with women, he would have almost thought she was flirting. Almost.

"Well, then we will see you tomorrow at noon."


End file.
